The Autobiography of Katherine Bradwell

See the title. Also, I guess I should warn for swearing or something. As in, a lot of it.

            My name’s Katherine Bradwell, and I’m dead.

            Wow, you say. Dead, huh, what a surprise, what a twist to put in the beginning of a book, how original. It’s not if you actually read a lot, but then maybe you haven’t. I don’t f*****g know. I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing. Well, I know you’re reading. I mean obviously if you refers to the reader, you must be reading, what the f**k kind of dumbass statement is that? S**t, is the blood leaking out of me so much I can’t even f*****g think anymore? Well, hey, whatever, I have plenty of time, I think, despite being dead.

Actually, I think technically I’m only dying. Not dead yet. But my death is a certainty, so I may as well be dead. I’ve got a damn hole in my stomach, I think that pretty much covers it. You should look at this s**t, just look at it. Blood all over my f*****g shirt. F*****g limited edition shirt, too. But hey, with a bullet wound to the gut I guess I can’t be f*****g complaining about t-shirts and how bloodstained they are, red in comparison to white. S**t. This beginning is s**t, isn’t it.

Let’s try this again. My name’s Katherine Bradwell, and I’m dead. Or dying. Either is technically correct. Now I’m sure you have several questions. Like “how did you die?” Or “what’s the afterlife like?” Or some s**t like that. But I have a better question that no one asks: in books like these, how the f**k is the narrator supposed to be publishing the book? How is the narrator supposed to be writing the goddamn book and getting it to earth if he or she is f*****g dead? No one ever thinks to ask that question, and it’s kinda pissing me off. I mean, come on guys, it’s common sense. Dead people can’t publish books. Well, I can, but like I said I’m not quite dead yet, so it doesn’t count. Actually a better question for me might be “why the f**k aren’t you dead yet if you have a f*****g bullet wound in your gut?”

See, that’s a damn good question. And the answer is, to put it eloquently, shenanigans. That seems like I’m dodging the question but you’ll see later that I’m actually not. There’s seriously no better way to explain it other than shenanigans, unless you want me to get deep and philosophical and s**t right at the beginning of the book. I’m gonna take a leap of faith here and say no, you don’t want that, because that would be f*****g stupid and no one would want to read that s**t especially at the very beginning of the story. I don’t wanna bog you down with too many details, so I’ll explain all the s**t about shenanigans and U.U. and how the impossible is possible later. Ha ha, none of that means s**t to you right now, except maybe that first one, because it’s how I’m writing despite being basically dead.

So I’m guess I should give you fair warning: this book isn’t gonna be completely about those topics. I’m not going to spend one hundred or five thousand pages, however long this is gonna be, to talk about U.U. and the s**t involved with it. Certainly I’ll touch on it " how the f**k would I write this if I didn’t? " but this book is first and foremost about my life. Yeah. You heard me. I’m a self-centered b***h going to spend five hundred self-centered pages around her own f*****g life. It’s my goddamn autobiography.

Unwarranted, that is. See, most autobiographies are written by famous people who actually maybe deserve them, because they’re well known no matter how s****y their work actually is. I, however, am not. In fact I doubt I’ll be well known even after my magnum opus is completed because who the f**k cares, Katy? Nobody. Nobody f*****g cares because that’s how it f*****g goes in life, and in death, even if I’m not quite there yet.

F**k, this is still an awful introduction.

Okay, so to summarize: this book is about me, Katherine Bradwell. Read that f*****g name enough? Katherine Motherfucking Bradwell. That’s not my actual middle name, but I wish it was. Who doesn’t, really? My real middle name is Angelica. Katherine Angelica Bradwell. What a weird middle name. Who the hell names their kid that? My parents, apparently.

Anyway, this story’s about me.

And if you have a problem with it, you can just go and f**k off.